


Scars

by ShivasLion



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 01:23:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17798441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShivasLion/pseuds/ShivasLion
Summary: Seifer Almasy and Squall Leonhart have been identifiable by their signature scars for a long time. But just what do those scars mean to them personally? Intended to be from either one's point of view, this ficlet explores just that question.





	Scars

The dictionary defines a scar as a mark upon the skin where a wound hasn’t healed properly. I suppose that’s true in the basest of senses, yet a simple mark can often mean much more. Looking upon my own body, I can pinpoint times and dates: when I fell outside of the orphanage one rainy day, when I overstepped my boundaries and got kicked by a chocobo after just starting Garden, or when I found myself facing down my greatest challenge of breaking a cruel woman’s hold on a corrupted and broken mind. But I can’t ignore the fact that I’m a warrior and, as a warrior, I have even more scars that I can’t place for the life of me. A skirmish here, tearing through the forest there… It’s hard to tell where they all could have come from to litter my skin with these imperfections. 

Through it all though, there will always be one that I can never forget and never ignore. So cleverly placed between eyes that feel like they’ve seen too much, I constantly feel the pull of taut skin and see the long-healed slash that will make my face recognizable for the rest of my life. Yet I don’t hate it and I don’t view it the same as the many others. No, this mark, this permanent reminder of a day I almost long for, will remain more of a tie to the past and to simpler times. Before wars and personal battles, before friends were lost and lives destroyed… All I need to do is to look into a mirror and be reminded of those fledgling years lived alongside my greatest friend and enemy. 

I often catch myself reaching up to stroke along the damaged skin, recalling the bite of steel into flesh. We had been sparring, like we so often did, and like times before, we had let our rashness and passion for battle catch up quick enough to trip us head over heels. Whether the strike was done out of true anger or simply as a misplaced accident, I don’t know if either of us could say. We were always like that, walking a fine line between merely practicing and wishing death upon the other. Yet I can’t say that it was born out of hatred. No, we simply had expectations to live up to, lives that would demand that mercy be put aside in favor of keeping one’s life. It only made sense to train as if every battle, every clash was real. 

We had hurt ourselves plenty of times before, from slices and scrapes to nearly broken bones. It was nothing new to wound each other just as it was nothing new to pick ourselves up after the mayhem and help each other to the local doctor. It was just what we did, a flashing act of blades that forged together two lives that otherwise might have ignored each other. It was our dance, our time when neither of us would be expected to do anything other than act. A rhythm that no one else could see or hear, that’s what we played by. We knew what we were there to do and that was all that mattered. 

Maybe that’s why there was no real hatred in those eyes with the return strike, even as blood dripped to stain the dusty stone a brilliant ruby. For we both knew that these battles and these injuries were more than mere acts of frustration. No, these were the times when we could be ourselves away from the public gaze. Both of us held, and still hold, such particular images to those around us. But this time… this time was for us. Despite what others might think, we knew each other best because of these clashes. Passion, determination, fear, fury, desperation, kindness… We saw the sides of each other that no one else did. And we liked it that way. We liked holding a secret sort of communion where only we knew the rules in a world where the rules didn’t seem to matter. 

It might not have been our last battle, but it was possibly the most important simply because of those twin scars. Our blades crossed through the war, yes. That fact is undeniable. Yet the birth of those marks was what held our heads high every time we met again, those healed-over memories reminding me of easier times when all we had to worry about was how to get back to Garden after nearly killing ourselves. For each time I saw the mirror image of my own scar, it gave me hope that things would someday be the same for both of us. It gave me hope that we would someday again sit side by side and revel in the post-battle bliss even as we bandaged each other’s wounds. It gave me hope that we would once again hear the subtle little laughs or hidden smiles that came from the familiarity we had with each other. It gave me hope that we would both survive because we had made each other strong and that we would both live to see a better day.

Whether we’ve reached that point or not, I can’t say. I’m almost afraid to speculate and assume that we’ve reached the other side and returned to a simpler day. No, I know that’s not true. Things will never be that easy again, not with all that we’ve gone through. Luckily that hardly keeps me from appreciating that we have always helped each other, whether in the most roundabout ways or while watching fresh blood litter the ground. So scars might be visual blemishes according to some book, but to me some scars speak volumes more than any dusty tome might be able to hold. And judging by how often I catch him tracing down my scar with his eyes, I’d say that he feels the very same about them.


End file.
